


The World At Last a Meadow

by perilit



Series: Brimming May [5]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Catharsis, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:33:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28922127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perilit/pseuds/perilit
Summary: Alive after the events on the mountain, Arthur's still struggling with the weight of all they've lost. John's not much better.Hosea isn't there to look after his boys anymore, but it turns out, he doesn't need to be.
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston
Series: Brimming May [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982324
Comments: 15
Kudos: 33





	The World At Last a Meadow

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this _started_ as _Hey, what if Jack asked about Hosea?_ , with the intent of another quick 600-ish word fic, and then quickly morphed into the mess of catharsis and healing and love here. 
> 
> Giving these men a chance to heal, heals me.

John made it off of the mountain, still clutching the place where the bullet had stuck into his skin and trying hard to ignore the unfamiliar weight of the hat on his head.

He’d gone back less than two hours later, sitting on top of some dead Pinkerton’s mare, and cursing Arthur the whole time under his breath. 

Arthur had been alive, though only just, and John had to grit his teeth around the swell of tears at how easy it had been to lift his brother onto the horse. He’d gotten on behind Arthur, one hand bracing the man’s skeletal frame against his own and the other pushing the terrified nag as hard as he could.

Arthur, along with Abigail and Jack, spends the next six months at Widow’s Rest, while John and Uncle, and then Charles, work tirelessly on Beecher’s Hope. 

Abigail writes when she can, John returning her letters infrequently between trips into Blackwater. Arthur’s recovery is slow, according to Abigail, and for the first two months, he hadn’t spoken a word, seemingly caught between shock at being alive, and grief for what they’d lost. Charlotte’s gentle, no-nonsense prodding had been the thing to prompt Arthur to speak again, and even then, it had only been to murmur his thanks. 

They’d gotten him a journal from one of Charlotte’s trips to Annesburg, and he spent most of the time he wasn’t sleeping either writing or drawing. 

Six months after he’d dragged a mostly-dead Arthur into the cabin, John steps across the threshold of Charlotte’s house and nearly sinks to his knees at the sight of Arthur at the table, still too thin, pale, drawn - but  _ alive _ . 

* * *

In the warm, dry air of Beecher’s Hope, Arthur’s lungs regain some of their strength, but the rest of him doesn’t seem to be getting any better. A combination of illness and what John privately assumed to be grief had rendered his appetite nonexistent for the better part of the first month, and in the end, it had been Jack’s quiet _ Uncle Arthur, please eat,  _ that had made Arthur, face still drawn and sad, nod and pick up his spoon.

One night, still torn about how to make the pale shadow of a man sleeping in the next room seem more like  _ Arthur _ , Abigail suggests that Arthur might be restless, wonders if he’d maybe like to sit outside for a while.

The next morning, when John asks, Arthur nods, after a beat, makes his way to the pasture with John’s arm slung under his shoulders, sinking down against a fence post and tilting his face up to the warm sunlight. 

John finds him there when he makes his way back over that afternoon. Buell's laid down next to him, legs folded under his massive body carefully, and Arthur’s sleeping form is leaning trustingly against the horse’s side, head pulled down against his chest.

It’s so reminiscent of the way he used to sleep at camp -- against the wagons, trees, rocks, always with his hat pulled low over his face -- that John has to swallow down the swell of emotion that rises suddenly in his throat. 

Jack starts to join Arthur out by the horses, and it becomes a habit - Arthur, with John’s help, will make his way to the barn or the pasture, and Jack more often than not will join him, bringing his toys or one of the dozens of books he’s somehow collected. 

John wishes desperately he could draw when one afternoon, Buell comes over, nibbling at Arthur’s overgrown beard. Arthur’s face, for the first time, squashes into a grin that erupts into a rusty, hoarse laugh as Buell, encouraged, whuffs into his face.

* * *

John is shoveling out one of the stalls one morning, Jack reading aloud to Arthur. Jack stumbles on a word, corrects himself, and John catches Arthur’s quiet murmur of praise.

_ He was always good with Jack.  _

It's a testament to how far John’s come that the thought fills him with warmth instead of guilt. 

Arthur’s voice floats over the quiet scrape of the pitchfork.

“Where’d you learn how to read so well, hm? You’re a smart kid.”

Jack’s voice is soft, wistful. “Grandpa Hosea.”

John feels an icy dagger settle into his gut at that, straightening up in time to see Arthur’s face go from abject sorrow to careful neutral. 

There’s a beat of cold silence.

“Jack, you mind letting me be alone for a while?” Arthur’s voice is quiet. John can hear the undercurrent of strain.

Jack’s eyes are wide and guilty, but he slides off the hay bale he’d been perched on, folding the book closed. He’s halfway across the floor when he stops, turning.

“When-when are we gonna see him again?”

John sets down the pitchfork sharply. “Jack, go back up to the house.” 

Jack’s eyes get even wider, looking rapidly between Arthur’s despondent expression and his father’s poorly-hidden grief. 

“I-”

Arthur’s voice isn’t more than a whisper. “ _Please_ , son-” His voice cracks on the syllable.

John grasps Jack’s shoulder firmly, steering the boy out of the barn before he can say anything else. 

Uncle is nowhere to be seen, and John is grateful for it. Abigail is sitting on the porch, mending in her lap. She stands when she sees the way John’s keeping hold of Jack, concern blooming across her features at Jack’s guilty expression and what she must see in John’s face.

“Is Arthur-?” 

“He’s...fine,” John says, at the same time Jack blurts, “What happened to Grandpa Hosea?”

Abigail freezes. John can’t speak, struggling past the grief suddenly thick in his throat. 

Both of them are silent for a long moment, Jack’s face rapidly dissolving into panic. Abigail swipes a hand over her eyes. “Jack, go in the house. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Whatever Jack can sense in the air is enough to make him reluctant to argue, and the door swings shut behind him. Abigail blows out a breath, stepping into John’s space and cradling his face in her hands. 

“Jack asked Arthur. About--him, I mean.” John internally winces at how rough his voice sounds.

Abigail reaches down to squeeze his hand. “I’ll tell him. Go on.”

  
  
  


Arthur cries quietly, John knows. He always has. John doesn’t know exactly what Arthur’s Pa did to make him so quiet, but it wasn’t anything nice, judging by Dutch and Hosea’s faces on the rare occasions it was brought up. 

There’s no sound when John steps into the barn, and he can’t find Arthur at first. For such a large man, Arthur is damn good at hunkering down. 

On a hunch, John peers into Rachel’s stall where the mare is settled in the new straw. Arthur is curled up next to her, facing away from the entrance. Rachel nickers when she spots him, and Arthur’s body goes rigid.

He doesn’t turn around, and after a moment, John risks a careful, “Arthur?”

He doesn’t think Arthur’s going to come up swinging, but then again, Arthur’s never needed his fists to hurt John.

Arthur swallows hard, the click audible in the near-silence. “Whaddya want, John.” His voice is still torn up from the way the coughing had shredded his throat, is even more gravelly now.

John shuffles his feet in the dusty straw. “I’m--sorry. ‘Bout Jack.”

Arthur sniffs. “Not his fault. He deserves to know.”

“Abigail, she’s in the house with him, she’ll…” John breaks off, shuffles again.

Arthur sighs deep, breaks into a wheezing cough that hurts to listen to. Rachel’s ears swivel back, her large head swinging towards the sound. John steps into the stall, lifting a hand to stroke her nose. He shuffles around to Rachel’s side, close enough to reach out to Arthur while still giving him space. 

He’d have missed Arthur’s next words if he hadn’t been so close, the sound muffled by Rachel’s body. 

“Wish it’d been me.”

John’s lips part silently in shock, and he’s sinking down to his knees in the straw before he registers the motion. “Arthur…”

Arthur sucks in a shaky breath through his teeth. “Was...dyin’, anyway. Hosea, he-” His voice breaks. “He-”

Arthur’s shoulders start to tremble. 

John doesn’t dare move, can hardly breathe around the weight of Arthur’s confession. The first tear surprises him, and he leans his head back, blinking uselessly at the ceiling. 

“This is what he wanted, you know?” John rasps. He hears Arthur’s breath shift as the man holds his breath, listening.

“He-” John laughs raggedly, ignoring the way it turns into a sob halfway through. “He kept telling me to get out, to...take Abigail and Jack and leave.” 

Arthur turns in the straw, and John’s stomach drops at the sight of Arthur’s face, streaked through with tears, bottom lip caught between his teeth. 

“He’d-” John’s throat closes. “He’d be real proud, Arthur.” 

Arthur’s face contorts in grief, even as he nods, fresh tears leaking into his beard. John’s not hiding his own, anymore. The wound has been lanced, and it hurts even as the sorrow rolling through his chest brings relief with each sob he has to bite down on. 

Rachel’s head is turned towards them protectively, her body solid and warm against them, and John can’t stop the way his breath catches when Arthur reaches out to grip John’s hand tightly. 

  
  
  


The sun is setting when Abigail’s gentle tap to his shoulder jerks John back to himself. Arthur’s breath has evened out, and he’s dozing against Rachel’s side, cheeks still terribly sharp in his face. Abigail’s face is kind, as she presses a kiss to John’s temple, moving past him to rouse Arthur.

Despite the lingering sadness that is still clinging to Arthur like fog, his eyes are a little clearer, and John catches the moment when he sneaks Rachel a peppermint.

“Where- did you even keep that?” John asks, delighting in the easy way Arthur’s lips twitch as he shakes his head in a ghost of his old mischief.

John hopes that wherever Hosea is, he’s listening. He hopes he’s right, that Hosea would be proud of them.

Arthur coughs, stops for a moment to lean on John, and when John glances up, Abigail’s watching them, her expression soft.

...Maybe Hosea’s not gone altogether. 

  
  
  


* * *

_...and I don't realize that this moment is the definition of family,  _

_ collective memory cut in rough-textured tones, the voice of a horn so familiar  _

_ I don't know I’m listening, don't know I’m singing,  _

_ a child's improvisation of Giant Steps or Impressions:  _

_ songs without lyrics can still be sung. _

  
  
  
  



End file.
